The moment Kaito shoved Y, the world shattered—shattered not with violence, not with sound, but with silence so absolute it was as though no sound was ever made.
Reality didn't break apart. It held together—barely, like a cracked mirror that somehow refused to fall.
Everything twisted and groaned, but it stayed in one piece, even when it felt like it shouldn't.
It folded.
Not unlike paper, but similar to will. Code buckled inward, folded onto itself, twisted into recursive impossibility. The space around them—the Anchorpoint Core—fell apart into strands of meaning and structure.
Columns were syntax. Floors were logic. The gate behind them unraveled like an unuttered sentence.
And then—they were falling.
Not through space, but through versions. Through failed builds, abandoned test zones, dropped features.
